The Good Father
by WillowDryad
Summary: Mort Cory isn't a father, but he doesn't want to lose a son.


**Disclaimer: Jess Harper. Mort Cory, and all the characters and situations in _Laramie_ belong to their copyright holders and not to me. I feel, at least in respect to Jess Harper, the situation is patently inequitable.**

THE GOOD FATHER

It was about 150 miles to Casper, and I know I felt every one of them there and back. If Slade Jenkins wasn't the orneriest prisoner I'd ever taken in, he was high on the list. There was nothing I enjoyed more than finally slamming his sorry backside into a cell at Sheriff Price's and hightailing it back home.

I was glad to see everything was quiet when I rode back into Laramie. I had pretty much expected it would be, but you never know. Jess Harper was a good man, someone I trusted to deputy for me, someone I trusted with my town and my life, but I had to admit the boy drew trouble like sugar drew flies. Still, nothing looked out of place.

I swung down from my horse in front of the livery stable and turned him over to be bedded down. It was still light, but late enough for the bank and most of the stores to be closed and for the saloons to be just warming up, and my shadow stretched long in the street as I walked down to the jailhouse. I found Jess sitting at the desk staring into a full cup of coffee, and I was faintly surprised to see he didn't look like he'd been shot or beaten up or even wooled around while I was gone. I was surprised, too, when he didn't look up. Usually it took only the fall of a step or the creak of a door hinge to put him on high alert.

"Jess?"

He lifted his head slowly. He must have known it was me, else he'd have leapt to his feet, body like a coiled spring and pistol in hand. Right now, he was only wary and distant. Maybe I was wrong about him being whole.

"Mort," he said, his voice a low, clipped rumble in his chest. "Things go all right?"

I nodded. "Got Jenkins up to Price in Casper. Not a problem."

"Good."

He looked down into his cup again and didn't say anything else, didn't drink.

I sat on the corner of my desk, waiting for a moment, and then I looked around. The cells were empty. There was only quiet.

"Everything all right here, boy?"

His fist clenched. That was all, but it was enough.

"What happened, Jess?"

He didn't answer me.

"Jess?"

He still didn't look up. "I had to kill somebody."

Now it was my turn to be silent. He'd had to do it before. So had I. It was never easy. Still, I'd never seen it affect him this way.

"Tell me about it."

He shook his head. His hand tightened on his cup, but he didn't pick it up. "Fool kid bullying everybody in the Stockmen's. You know the kind, throwing his weight around, trying to be a big man, not any real harm, not really, but the kind you gotta stop before something happens. He had this big-mouthed friend prodding him on, telling him he didn't have to listen to any make-do deputy. I tried to talk the kid down, but he wasn't havin' it, not with his friend there watchin'."

He held tighter to that cup, and I finally took it from him. The coffee must have gone cold some time ago.

He looked at me and then dropped his head again. "He started pawin' one of the girls in there, and ol' Sam got his scatter gun from behind the bar. The kid shot him right in the shoulder. By then I'd had enough. I told him he was leavin' one way or other. For a minute I thought he was done. He looked like he was a little surprised about hittin' Sam, but when I told him again to put the gun down, his friend said he didn't have to take that off anybody who wasn't even a real lawman. The kid turned back my way, and I saw him lift his gun. I was going to just hit him in the arm or the shoulder or something, just enough to make sure he didn't shoot again. But his friend shoved him toward me and my bullet—" He touched his black-gloved fingers to his shirt just about where his heart was. "He was dead before he hit the floor."

"I'm sorry," I said, and I got him a fresh cup of coffee. "Sounds like a bad business, but there doesn't seem much else you could have done. It was an accident."

"Oh, I haven't told you the best part." His mouth turned up just the slightest bit on one side. "His friend grabbed up his gun and spun the chamber. Then he held it out to me. 'It's empty, deputy!' He waved it around for everybody to see. 'His gun's empty!' I killed a kid who had nothing but an empty gun."

Dear Lord. "You been home since?"

He shook his head.

The way gossip traveled, I don't know how his folks at the ranch wouldn't have heard, but if they had, Slim would have been here. Maybe Jess had asked Mose to not take the news out with the stage.

I clasped his shoulder, holding on until he looked at me. "It was an accident, Jess. You couldn't have known. You did everything you could have. You did everything _I_ would have. Sometimes doing all you can just isn't enough. Sometimes people make stupid decisions, and we can't stop 'em, no matter how hard we try."

He nodded, but I could tell it didn't matter. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

"When was this?" I asked him.

"Couple of days ago. Had to bury the kid this morning. Nobody there but me and the preacher and Mr. Birdsong from the funeral parlor. Not even his so-called friend showed up."

"What's this friend's name?"

He was looking into his cup again.

"Jess?"

He blinked at me. "Uh, calls himself Benson. Jim Benson."

"He still in town?"

"Yeah." His jaw clenched. "He's been over at the Stockmen's for the past two days telling the world how his friend was shot down and he didn't even have a loaded gun."

"You shoulda run him out, Jess. You don't have to listen to that bull."

"I run him out, and it makes it sound like I'm afraid of him tellin' the truth."

I huffed. He was probably right. "This Benson likely to hurt anybody?"

"He doesn't carry a gun, if that's what you mean. I haven't heard of him doing anything but talk."

"Yeah," I said. "Sounds like he talked his friend to death. You stay here for a minute, all right?"

Jess didn't answer me.

"All right?" I asked again.

"Yeah. All right."

I didn't like leaving him the way he was, but I had to find out what I could about the shooting. I knew Jess. He wouldn't have killed that boy if he could have helped it. It sounded like it was just a mistake from beginning to end.

The Stockmen's Palace was going full bore by then. The tables were full, and there were more than a couple of strangers in the room. It didn't take me more than a few seconds to figure out that the loudmouth at the bar must be Benson.

"It's true," he was saying to a couple of drovers at one end of the bar. "Harper wouldn't let Chance leave. He wouldn't even let him hand over his gun before he shot him down."

An old man was drinking at the bar's opposite end, his eyes pale and blue in his lined face. I couldn't tell if he was interested or afraid.

Sam glared at Benson, managing to wipe down a glass with his arm in a sling, "If it was a crime to lie, you'da been hanged ten times over."

"Aw, mind your bar, mister."

"If I had my way of it, you'd never drink in here again."

"Yeah, tell that to your boss. He said to keep your mouth shut and do your job."

I went up to Benson and stared him down until he looked my way.

"Well, sheriff. Glad to see you've finally come back to town. You ought to do something about that deputy of yours. I don't know if it's safe to have him around us God-fearing folk."

I looked him over coolly. "I'll see to my deputy and to Laramie's God-fearin' folk. Who's this Chance who got himself killed?"

"Friend of mine. Chance Landry. Just a kid."

"Old enough."

Sam shrugged. "Looked about eighteen or nineteen. Maybe. Hard to tell."

"Old enough," I repeated.

"He just wanted to have a little fun," Benson said. "Let off a little steam. No harm in him, sheriff."

I nodded my head toward Sam's sling. "He might have a different take on that."

Several of the men who'd been here that night spoke up then, telling what they saw. So did the girl who'd been roughed up. These were people I knew. I had known most of them for some while. They all backed what Jess had told me.

"Chance didn't mean anything by it," Benson said. "He just wanted to dance with the girl, and that fool bartender got in his way. What are these girls here for anyway?"

"Not to be manhandled by every drunk cowpoke comes in," I said.

"It didn't give that so-called deputy of yours any call to gun him down."

I gave him my coldest, hardest glare. "I understand you've been talkin' big since it happened. You want to stand up in court and tell your side?"

He blinked and looked around the room, suddenly not so sure. Then he thrust out his chin. "Like that'd do any good with everybody in Laramie lyin' to protect one of their own."

I picked up his hat from the bar and thrust it against his chest. "Then I suggest you find yourself another saloon and another town to do your drinkin' and talkin' in. If I see you in town after about an hour from now, you'll have your accommodations courtesy of the Laramie jail."

"On what charge?" Benson demanded.

"On whatever charge I pick. Try me."

He slammed down the rest of his whiskey and slammed his hat onto his head. Then, muttering under his breath, he stormed out of the room. The two men he'd been talking to for the benefit of the whole room gaped at me.

I looked them up and down. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

"No, sir," one of them said, and they both turned back to their drinks.

By then a little something sounded pretty good to me, too, and I got Sam to pour me a whiskey. I took it down to the far end of the bar, next to the old man who was still nursing along his own.

He looked up at me mildly. "Evenin', sheriff."

"Evenin'. You're new in town."

"Yessir. Got in this afternoon. Never been to Laramie before. It always this lively?"

I smiled about half way. "That one's all mouth. Seems he likes to push other fellahs into making trouble for him."

"Ah." The stranger studied the bottom of his glass, and then he looked at me again. "Oh, name's Whitman."

I shook the hand he offered. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitman. Will you be staying long?"

"Not long. Probably leave in the morning."

"I hope not on account of what that fool said." I shook my head. "He's wrong, you know."

"Wrong?"

"About my deputy."

"Is he?" Whitman asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I didn't think you were here to see it."

"I wasn't, but I know Jess."

"Jess? Is that your deputy's name?"

I nodded. "He's a good man."

I took a drink and didn't say more.

"You got something worrying you, sheriff?" Whitman asked me, kindly like, once I'd emptied my glass and then a second.

I sagged back against the bar, resting on my elbow. "Just that boy."

"The one who was killed?"

I shook my head. Sometimes it was easier to talk to a stranger than someone you had to live with.

"No. I'm sorry about him. From all I can tell, he was rowdy and he was drunk. He had to be stopped, but he didn't need killin'. What happened to him was a shame, but it wasn't more than an accident. No, what worries me is Jess."

"How so?"

"Jess was raised hard and he's lived hard, but he never was mean, and he's no killer. What happened with Chance Landry, especially with his gun being empty when he was shot, it's eatin' at him."

"Sure you aren't making excuses for what happened?" Whitman asked, just a simple question.

I shook my head. "I don't need to. Not for Jess. He's a good friend and a trusted deputy. He grew up a little wild, but he's saved many a life around here. He's about nearly a son to me. You ever have a son?"

There was a spark of humor in the old man's eyes. "Five of 'em." The spark quickly faded. "Mostly lost in the war."

Too many old men had that to say, and I couldn't help feelin' bad for this one. "I'm sorry. I never had any of my own. But Jess, he and the fellah he ranches with, they're about as near as I guess I'll ever come. I hate to see him torn up about something he couldn't do anything about."

"I can understand how you feel. Nothing makes a man prouder than having a son. Nothing hurts more than seeing him hurt. Nothing harder than when he leaves home and doesn't come back."

"Yeah."

I felt my throat tighten, thinking of this man sending his sons to war and having them not come home. I'd probably had enough to drink for the night.

Whitman offered me his hand again. "Well, sheriff, I've had a long journey, and it's time I got back to the hotel and settled in for the night."

I clasped his hand and we shook.

"In case I don't see you again," he said, "best of luck. I've enjoyed talking with you. And I hope that deputy of yours won't be worrying you much longer."

"It's been a pleasure, sir," I said. "And thank you."

He tipped his hat and headed out to the door. Jess came in as he was leaving, and the old man stood aside to let him by.

"Excuse me, mister," Jess said, hardly seeing him.

Whitman tipped his hat again. "Deputy."

Jess came straight up to me at the bar.

"Let me buy you a drink, Jess. You ought to relax some."

He shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I was just wonderin' what else you want me to do. Sittin' over at the jail by myself's about to make my skin crawl"

I reached over and rubbed his shoulder and then gave it a swat. "You ought to go on home. Things are quiet, and you've done your job."

"Yeah." He looked out over the bar and then his eyes settled on the fresh, dark stain in the middle of the floor. "I done my job all right."

"Go on, now." I made my voice as gentle as I could. "Things won't look half so bad tomorrow."

"No." He didn't look at me. "I can't go back to the ranch. Not yet. They'll want to know what happened, and I don't want to have to go over it all again. Not tonight."

"All right then, come bunk at the jail. I'll be glad of the company."

He smiled a little, finally meeting my eyes. "Don't know as I could sleep, but I might drink up all your coffee."

"Suits me."

"All right. Let me see Traveller's settled for the night, and I'll be over."

Once he was gone, I drained the few drops left in my glass and went back to the jail. Jess had kept the place neat enough and, evidently, there hadn't been any prisoners while I was away. There wasn't much for me to do but sort through the mail that'd come while I was up in Casper. New wanted posters, a letter from an aunt of mine back east, a few bills and a circular for patent medicine, that was about it. I made some fresh coffee, knowing Jess hadn't been lying when he warned me he'd drink it all up. I hoped he would. It was unsettling to see him hold onto a cup of coffee long enough to let it go cold.

The coffee was about boiling over when I decided I'd better go see what was keeping him. I know sometimes it made him feel better to spend time just with his horse. There was a special bond between the two of them, and he knew he could let his guard down with Traveller more than he could even with the best of his friends. No matter what he'd said in the saloon, the boy had looked so worn out already, I figured I'd just as likely find him fallen asleep in Traveller's stall as still seeing to the horse.

The only one I found asleep in the hay was Kip Minton, the stableboy. He wiped his eyes, looking half dazed when I asked him about Jess.

"Yeah," he said through a yawn. "He was here a while ago. Not long. Then that man you sent came for him and he left."

"What man I sent?" I shook the boy by the shoulders, rougher than I ought to have been. "Who was he? What did he say?"

"I don't know," Kip said, squirming out of my grasp. "I didn't see him. Didn't really hear much of what he said. Jess just told me he had to go see what you wanted and he'd be back to see to his horse."

"Did you see which way they went?"

Kip shook his head. "I'm sorry, no."

_Just like flies to sugar_, I told myself as I stepped back into the street. Benson. It had to be. It was like a coward to lure a man out into ambush. But Jess wasn't likely to be taken in. Not by that man in particular. Not unless he'd made up some tale about deciding to take his complaints about the shooting to court after all.

It didn't matter what the story was. All that mattered was that someone had come for Jess, claiming I'd sent for him, and now Jess was missing. The only thing I could do was start walking the streets, trying somehow to find some sign if him, with only the sparse light of the stars in the night's pitch blackness.

By some miracle, I stumbled on a hat in a back alley, a black hat with a studded band. Jess's hat. I lit a match to study it. It was crushed in at the back, and there was a wet, dark stain there. I could see marks in the dirt, too, marks of heels dragged along and around the corner. There were three or four empty storefronts in this part of town. They were all still and dark. No, that wasn't right. The second one from the end had a faint line of light around the edges of the door.

I drew my gun and crept up to it, careful to be as catfooted as I could manage. There was definitely light inside. Maybe a single lantern. Maybe just a single candle. The shades were drawn, but if I leaned the right way, I could see just a strip of the inside. Jess was there all right.

He was slumped against the wall, his ankles tightly tied, his right arm bound to his side. I couldn't see enough to see his left arm. He looked pale as death, but his eyes were open. He was looking up at whoever was talking.

". . . came all this way," the voice was saying. "After five years, I couldn't wait to see him. He was all I had left, and I was so proud. I counted every mile between home and here, every minute."

I couldn't see, but I could hear. I could hear, and it all suddenly made sense.

"All that met me when I got here was my boy's grave. I couldn't even put my arms around him one last time. I couldn't—"

I kicked in the door. "Get back, Whitman."

The old man from the saloon looked up at me with mild eyes, but suddenly the barrel of his gun was pressed under Jess's jaw.

I clenched my teeth seeing that Jess's left arm was tied to his side, too, but only to the elbow, tied so his palm was turned up and his forearm was angled out, tied so he could do nothing to stem the flow of blood from the welling slit in his wrist, blood that was soaking into the once-white towel that lay beneath.

He looked at me woozily, barely holding onto consciousness. I noticed then that the corners of his mouth were bloodied and there were long, thin marks from them and across his cheeks. His bandana lay in his lap, loosely wadded up. He must have been gagged until he was too weak to resist any longer, bleeding out while Whitman looked on and told him again and again what he'd done.

"What do you want, Whitman?"

"Whitman Landry, sheriff," he said. "Chance was my son. This man here killed him. He killed my son. An unarmed boy. I want him to think on that every second he has left to him."

Jess moved his lips, but no sound came out. He drew a weak breath and tried again. "Sor— S-sor—"

"Don't do this," I pled, seeing the pain in the man's eyes, the pain I'd seen earlier when we'd been at the bar. "He didn't want to kill your son. You heard from everyone who saw what happened. Jess tried to get him out without anybody getting hurt."

"Chance was eighteen, sheriff." Tears came into the old man's eyes. "Eighteen when last I saw him. He was too young to die. Too young to die for so foolish a reason."

"You said you hadn't seen him in five years." I kept my voice low and gentle, moving a little closer, praying for Jess to hold on. "He was eighteen five years ago."

Whitman nodded.

"Jess didn't want to kill him. He's not so much more than a boy himself mostly."

"Chance _was_ a boy!"

"He was twenty-three." I nodded toward his captive. "Look at Jess there."

By then Jess's eyelids were fluttering shut and his mouth had gone slack like a sleeping child's.

"Look at him," I said, seeing the grief and anguish in the old man's eyes. "He's twenty-six. Is that so much more than twenty-three? If you ask me, there ain't enough difference to spit at." I dared to come a little closer still and, wrong-headed or not, I holstered my gun. "I told you I don't have sons of my own, not really. Only friends I count as mine. I expect you know better than most what it's like to lose a son. It's a pain that don't go away, and painin' somebody else ain't gonna help it."

There were tears running down the lined face now, but Whitman still had that gun shoved under Jess's jaw. I dared reach toward it.

"I don't want to lose my boy."

Jess went limp then, slumping against the old man. Whitman let his gun fall and took Jess into his arms, holding on tight, sobbing inconsolably. I let him keep holding onto Jess while I tossed his gun away and then used Jess's discarded bandana to bind up his wrist, praying it would be enough.

Whitman watched what I was doing, cradling Jess in his arms. "We have to get him to a doctor."

I nodded. "Help me."

OOOOO

Two days later, I stood at the foot of the grave. Whitman Landry stood beside me, shoulders slumped with grief and maybe a touch of shame. Jess stood with us, hat in hand, head bowed before a new-cut headstone that read _Chance Landry, Age 23._

"Mr. Landry—"

"Don't," Whitman said. "What you did wasn't your fault. What I did— You should have brought charges."

"No, sir." Jess didn't look at him. "It's done now. For both of us."

Whitman touched the bandage on Jess's wrist. It was fresh and tight and not much whiter than he was. I knew he'd have a scar, but he was alive, and I'd take that trade every day of the week.

"I hadn't seen my boy in a long time." The old man fixed his eyes on the headstone. "He was the last, Chance was. I lost his four older brothers in the war, three of 'em the same day. Chance and I, we were meeting in Laramie and then I was going to take him home to stay. He'd been gone five years. Maybe I didn't know him anymore. Maybe he wasn't the boy I remembered."

Jess ducked his head lower, clutching his hat in his hands. "He was your son. I killed him."

Whitman laid his hand against Jess's shirtfront. "Boy?"

Jess lifted his head at last, and there were tears standing in his eyes.

"Would you—" There was need in the old man's face, pleading in his voice. "Could I—"

Jess's eyebrows curved up, and I could tell he didn't understand. I did.

Sudden and swift, Whitman threw his arms around Jess, tucking Jess's head under his chin and holding him for a long minute. At first Jess just stood there, his body tense, quivering at the unexpected closeness, but then the resistance went out of him and his arms went around the old man. He held on tight, his eyes squeezed shut, until the old man let him go and stood back.

"Goodbye, boy." Whitman lay one hand on Jess's head, dignified as a parson. "God bless you."

Jess watched him lead his horse away, watched until he disappeared around the bend in the road. Then he drew a shuddering breath and let it seep out of him.

I jostled his shoulder, turning him away from the grave. "Come on, son. It's time we got you home."

"Yeah, home." His voice was almost too soft to hear as he put on his hat. "I'm ready to go home."

THE END

**Author's Note: I always loved the relationship between Mort Cory and Slim and Jess. He's a tough, no-nonsense sheriff, but I think he cares deeply for the two of them. ("Killers' Odds" is one of my favorite episodes for just this reason.) I hope I've captured at least a little of that here. I'd love to know what you think.**


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